


Gilded Salute

by TenkeyLess



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Ambiguous/Open Ending, An attempt at style was made, Courtship, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Fighting is Flirting, Non-Graphic Violence, Worldbuilding, Zenos still has no regard for personal space or boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenkeyLess/pseuds/TenkeyLess
Summary: Crown Prince Zenos yae Galvuslanguishesas ball after ball and social function after social function take their toll on the prince designed forbattle. Confined to Garlemald's Embassy within Eorzea by his Father's orders, Zenos is all too ready to seize upon the promising hint of violence offered by a new face to Society.Regency AU with Zenos and F!WoL.
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	Gilded Salute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frostmantle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostmantle/gifts).



Glasses clink and dancers bow in an utterly unaffecting spectacle before the crown prince of Garlemald, Zenos yae Galvus. He observes the gala amidst the perfumed crowd, stately figures filling the ballroom to bursting. Standing head and shoulders above all save the rare Roegadyn, he cuts an intimidating figure across the dance hall. Fear flickers in the eyes of those that chance to meet his gaze, but they are cowardly wisps easily dismissed, none worthy of his attention.

Why his father insists on keeping him here at the embassy in Eorzea and all its attached social obligations rather than _home_ where he might find steel worth crossing is a vexatious puzzle. Though, truthfully, not so much mystery as untenable circumstance. After securing the throne through bloody conflict, his father was clear that he intends for him to find and wed some hapless ally and ensure the Galvus line endures.

Marriage, in short, is the only thing that will absolve him of these tedious parties and expectations.

He exhales.

Awareness of the issue leaves him no closer to resolving it.

Bored beyond measure with the silk and lace surrounding him, Zenos glides to the tea table bearing tonight's centerpiece. A carved ice rendition of the Dragonsong War's conclusion, treatise in hand of the Elezen Lord brokering peace with Hraesvelgr's brood. Shards of ice crystal embedded throughout the piece keep cold rolling down the sculpture. A truly extravagant use of condensed aether, and Zenos frowns at the display. Glittering, gorgeous, and utterly without function. An empty waste, like much of his dreary surroundings.

"Prince Zenos?" a sure voice entreats him from below. He checks about his coattails for the speaker, a cleared throat revealing them at his flank. Standing barely thigh high, staring into his boot's laces, an impeccably dressed lalafell leans back to meet his gaze.

"Your Highness, might I beg a moment of your illustrious time? I come bearing an interest in your family's blockade of Doma and the spice market stifled there—"

"You wish to discuss trade?" Zenos's lip wrinkles in disgust at their interruption. The lalafell only smiles in response, grey moustache curling amiably.

"Aye, trade. For all that your esteemed father denies the Syndicate's overtures, our connections may prove of use to his _other_ ventures."

A tired eyebrow lifts, Zenos's disdain clear as the lalafell prattles on. The sharp _crack_ of flesh on flesh snaps his gaze back to the crowd just in time to catch an Elezen lady withdrawing her hand from a Hyur's reddened cheek. Snarling something buried by the ongoing revel, she stalks to the open terrace, leaving the Hyuran fop behind. Ah, finally, something _worthy_ of his attention. A feral glint lights in his dull blue eyes. Sweet violence delivered in its only acceptable fashion as deemed by the polite society suffocating him.

And a new face the one brave or foolish enough to commit such.

He shakes off the lalafellin merchant with a few brusque words, directing them to contact the embassy proper for such matters, and prowls after the newcomer. All of Eorzea's peerage is known to him, be it in one fashion or another. Every faction studiously researched and dismissed in turn for their pacifist stances.

With his hungry country's ambitions and even hungrier patriarch, the crown prince's hand ought to be bought by a worthy ally or benefactor. Coin these countries have aplenty, Eorzea's bounty in particular seemingly boundless. Yet none have the mettle he seeks, craves.

Coattails streaming like a comet's tail from his rapid pace, he reaches the balcony in short order and casts about for the Elezan lady. The susurrus of silk reaches his keen ears, and he vaults the railing to arrive on the walking path below. Catlike grace serves him well as he rises to loom before the startled woman. Her hand is placed to her breast in surprise, eyes wide, entirely startled at his abrupt appearance. Zenos stalks to accost her, determined to measure this potential source of excitement in his insipid surroundings. She scurries backwards, footwear designed for the forgiving dance floor of the ballroom slipping on the stone path. Undeterred by her reflexive retreat, he pursues, ignoring her dismay. A _smack_ reaches his ears as her back meets the terrace wall and she is forced to halt. 

Stationary prey.

_Slam._

He pauses, blinking, confused as a fist buried in his lapel stops his momentum cold. A hint of steel shows below the silken line of her arm outflung to arrest his approach. The implication of true power, to halt him so utterly, proves an intoxicating fragrance atop the garden's flowery musk. Eyes glittering in excitement, he observes the lady closely over her rigid arm.

"What art do you study?" He presses forward, leaning his greater mass to advantage. "From whence is your strength derived?”

She colors fetchingly at the fervency of his plea, a vulnerability Zenos notes to exploit. Haltingly, she speaks, in the cadence of one caught with their hand revealed. 

"From time to time, maman summons sword tutors — persons of repute within her circle of acquaintance." Her voice quickens, stronger, brash. "However I fail to see how that bears any relevance to the presumptions you visit upon me, ser, persisting in following me as you have."

"Weaklings. Discard them. They will do naught but mar the polish of your strength." His husky growl is delivered nose to nose.

Her sip of air is rife with outrage, but he does not brook interruption. Drawing himself back to his full height, shaken free of her grasp, he makes his demands. The handspan of space between them, crackling with tension, is the sole portion of propriety present in this highly irregular meeting.

"Spar with me, instead, that you might hone your fangs against a worthy match. I know of every sword tutor in the city and its surrounding districts. _None_ will grant you so sufficient a challenge as I."

Puffing up in rage, flags of crimson high on her cheeks, she dares to scold him.

"You presume much of me ser, for how little we are acquainted—"

"I will make _every_ imposition,” he drawls, "on both personage and time, should even a glimmer of excitement appear to break the doldrums of my days. Such joy as can be found in a ready challenge may seem paltry to you, I concede, but to me it is all that is left in this ephemeral world."

Zenos reaches forward with a great hand, as though to caress her cheek, only to be painfully halted. Wrist seized in the iron band of her grip, swift as a coiled viper, her hold exhibits no weakness or flaws. Her thumbnail digs deep into the tender flesh of his wrist in unambiguous warning.

"Have care, ser, for those presumptions you so readily display."

Quite unable to contain his glee, he grins. Wide mouth full of teeth, threatening to swallow every refutation. And she, rather than quail as so many have before, smiles back in full feral defiance. Her grin is more rictus than mirth, teeth bared in challenge. The sight summons a surge of levin up his spine.

"Oh yes," Zenos withdraws his hand, her grip relenting and releasing him as he goes. "Yes, you will do nicely."

Her indignant huff only serves to heighten the anticipation singing in his veins. Lifting his hand in brief farewell, the tantalizing sting of the half-crescent moon in his flesh serves as a reminder of his resolve to see their futures entwine.

"My new friend."

He spins on his heel, back to the ballroom and the courtiers that wait. Back past their slavering maws and vapid eyes, to the embassy and his study where he may seek answers to this new prey, this new _Hunt_.

" **My beast**."

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at a Regency AU for the lovely Frostmantle! Hopefully I did the genre some justice with the tall Garlean princeling.
> 
> The pun title for this one was Blondegarde (after engarde) xD
> 
> Thanks to [Starships](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starships/pseuds/Starships) for the beta!
> 
> And thanks as always to the [Bookclub discord](https://discord.gg/PvbG45u) for their infectious enthusiasm <3  
> If you're interested in chatting with FFXIV fic readers and writers alike, feel free to click the discord link and join in!


End file.
